
PS 3535 

.0179 
C6 
1911 
Copy 1 



OTH OF FRIEjZE 

BY 

RY ELEANOR ROBERTS 




Class ___PS_1535 
Book_ 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



CLOTH of FRIEZE 



CLOTH of FRIEZE 

By MARY ELEANOR ROBERTS 



Cloth of gold, do not despise, 

Though thou'rt matched with cloth of frize. 

Cloth of frize, be not too bold, 

Though thou walk with cloth of gold. 

Old proverb. 




PHILADELPHIA if^ LONDON 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1911 



7^3^ ^ 



.0171 






^n 



OOPTKIQHT, 191 1, BY J. B. LXPPINCOTT COMPANY 



PUBLISHED NOVEMBER, I911 



PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

AT THE WASHINGTON 8QUAEE PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A. 



©CI.A300608 



CONTENTS 

PAOB 

Dedication ., 9 

A Castle in Spain 11 

The Death of the Admiral 15 

The Witch- Wife 18 

Ode on the Dedication of a College 20 

The Sheaf 23 

SONNETS 

The Hounds of Asurbanipal 27 

The Forge 28 

The Engineer 29 

Followers of Ulysses 30 

Laura 31 

The Grave at Home 32 

The Mother 33 

Judgment 34 

Who is This ? 35 

Truth 36 

The Shrine 37 

In Time op Failure 38 

Labor 39 

The Song of Sorrow 40 

In the Ranks 41 

The Greek Dance 42 

Dante 43 

Old Painters 

Giotto 44 

Fra Angelico 45 

Botticelli 46 

(V) 



BALLADS 

The Lady of Llandovery 49 

Queen Ysabeau's Hunting 54 

Gabriel and Michael 59 

The Crystal-Gazer 61 

Mollie Lindsay 63 

MISCELLANEOUS 

The Central Tower 67 

Her Fruits 68 

Intaglio 69 

The Stone Gods 70 

Angelus 72 

Ash- Wednesday 74 

To A Poet 75 

The Speaker 76 

The Tithe of [Little Things 78 

At Tintagel 79 

The Longfellow House at Portland 81 

A Little Girl in the West 

California Poppies 83 

Big Trees 83 

Lick Observatory 84 

Yellowstone Canyon 85 

The Heaven Soaring Lark 87 

Love 88 

Life 89 

Sorrow 90 

To A Child 91 

The Oppressed 92 

The Sea 93 

The Kaleidoscope 94 

Two Statues 95 

A Winter Sunset 96 

The Camp on the Prairie 97 

The Road op Song 98 

(vi) 



The Shadow 99 

Summer Wind 100 

Rose or Clematis ? 101 

A Love Song 102 

In an Opera House, Top Gallery 103 

To Time 104 

The King's Garden 105 

The Soul's Highways 106 

Quaker Meeting 108 

The Seven Sins 110 

The Midnight Mass 112 

The Blue Flower (From the German of Rudolf Baumbach) 118 
At the Tomb of Theophile Gautier (From the French of 
Jose-Maria de Heredia) 120 

IN FRENCH METERS 

The Far Adventure (Rondeau) 123 

Let Us be Friends (Rondeau) 124 

In the Stream of the World (Rondeau, Short form) 125 

To A Friend With a Clock (Rondeau, Short form) 126 

In a Library (Rondel) 127 

To Poesy (Rondeau Redouble) 128 

The Ballade of Near and Far (Ballade a Double Refrain) 130 
Ballade of Monsieur Brideau (On Seeing Otis Skinner in 

the Role) 132 

Ballade of the Woman's Number 134 

Sestina of the Ardent Club-Woman 136 

Pantoum of the Virtuous Housewife 138 

The Poet Chooses His Meter (Pantoum) 140 



The author wishes to thank the editors and publishers of 
Appleton's Magazine, The Century Magazine, Harper's Maga- 
zine, Harper's Weekly, Lippincott's Magazine, McClure's Maga- 
zine, Poet-Lore, St. Nicholas, Life, and The Book News Monthly, 
for their courteous permission to reprint certain of these poems 
which originally appeared in their pages. 

(vii) 



DEDICATION 

A BOOK is like a casket, 
And full perhaps it seems 
Of flowers for joy and blessing, 
Perfume and bloom possessing, 
Heaped up as in a basket, 
But mine is full of dreams. 

I think of them as jewels, 

Beryl and ruby's flame, 

And pearls, deep Ocean's daughters. 

From salt and bitter waters ; 

White sparks from fierce old fuels 

The diamonds' beauty came. 

And round about the cover. 
And on the sides one sees 
Medallions quaint and olden, 
In metals green and golden. 
Enamels burnished over. 
And carven ivories. 

Yet long in sanctuary, 

Lay these few gems of mine, 

Fast locked like things forbidden, 



And clasped away and hidden, 

As in a reliquary, 

In some dim, haunted shrine. 

I Ve seen in ancient stories 

A great queen overseas, 

Amid her maidens sitting. 

With gorgeous threads and fitting. 

To weave her lord his glories 

In broidered tapestries. 

Her heart, with joy o 'er-running, 
Would give and he receive, 
For when a gift we offer. 
The best we have we proffer ; 
My hands have little cunning, 
And words are all I weave. 

As one her patient stitches 
Bestows with happy pain. 
And one her beauty's dower, 
And one her white souPs flower, 
I give my fancied riches. 
And you will not disdain. 



10 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN 

PAET I. 

T N my dreams I Ve built for you, 
^ Sweet, a castle grim and grand; 
Many nights its turrets grew. 

And in Spain its ramparts stand ; 

(Spain is near to fairy-land). 

And its towers, proud and free. 

Look through Roncesvalles to France, 

Northward o 'er all chivalry. 
Southward over all romance. 
Outspread for a lady's glance. 

There between the frowning towers 
Is a space to walk upon. 

Strait, yet wide enough for flowers, 
Pansies, lilies, every one. 
When you smile they feel the sun. 

There I see you robed and crowned. 
As I never saw you yet ; 

Your hair filleted and bound 
In a pearl-embroidered net. 
Whence its braid falls, pearl beset. 



11 



Your gown's texture I don't know, 
But I know that it is white; 

Samite, maybe, — pure as snow. 
Clasped by strange alexandrite, 
Green by day and red by night. 

In that air-built land of mine 
Never lady was so fair ; 

Little shoes of quaint design, 
Silver-furred, I think you wear, 
Noiseless on the granite stair. 

There's a curious swinging seat 
In the upper arches' gloom, 

For a refuge from the heat. 
In the vaulted, Gothic room, 
I have placed a lute and loom. 

And a pale Christ hanging, stares 
From the alcove wall alway, 

And a missal for your prayers 
Shows God's service day by day- 
Even in dreams I know you pray. 

There I see you, but I see 
Even in that enchanted spot, 



12 



There is never room for me, 
Night or day I am forgot, 
Even in dreams you love me not. 



PAET II. 



Truth is cold, a bitter sword, 
Can it be that dreams are vain? 

May not one be over-lord 
Of a castle built in Spain, 
You its peerless chatelaine? 

Yet last night I raced to flee 

Evil furies on my track, 
Death, the harrier, hastening me, 

Hounded on the yelling pack; 

Mocking voices called me back. 

Till I flung me at your gate. 

Called and heard your answer, ''Hark! 
If my true-love rode so late, 

I should know him in the dark ; 

Then the watch-dogs would not bark!'' 



''Open door at any cost!" 
"Yea, we open." Thus 



you said, 

13 



standing, one white arm np-tossed 
With the torch above your head, 
Dropping down a baleful red. 

Stern you stood there, eye and brow 
Flashing in the flaring light; 
*^What discourteous knight art thou, 
Troubling ladies to their fright? 
Get thee back into the night/' 

Ah ! Unjust, unkind it seems, 
Destiny should have its way ; 

Outcast even of my dreams, 
Exiled back to work-a-day; 
Even in Spain you say me nay. 



14 



THE DEATH OF THE ADMIRAL 

( Columbus at Valladolid, May 20th, 1506. ) 

T AM that Christoplier that knew no rest, 
-■' Urged by one thought, one faith, one hope 

to be 
Christ-bearer? Aye! I bore Him to the West, 
Beyond the Unknown Sea. 

There was a day the cannons of the fort 
Echoed the shouting and the loud acclaim. 

When the long walls of Palos and the Port 
Resounded with my name. 

That was the day the vision of my youth 
I saw acknowledged among actual things. 

What says the Scripture? ^'He who speaks the 
truth 
Shall gain the love of kings." 

I spoke the truth ; I proved it ; that great Queen 
I justified. She praised me. What remains? 

The memory of darkness that hath been. 
And bitterness, and chains. 



15 



Those lonely days, — ye came not to me then. 

Who so deserted, so distressed as 11 
Ye sought me not, yet now, good gentlemen, 

Ye come to see me die. 

I found a world ! As though one grasped a star. 
Presumptuous, to gather only pain ! 

Ah, well ! Salute, before he sails afar, 
The Admiral of Spain. 

My fair new land shall yield you spice and silk, 
Pearl of the sea, and treasure of the mine ; 

A goodly land, of honey and of milk. 
Aye, and of oil and wine. 

Men of my race and yours shall call it home, 
Eemembering me, and this shall be my fame, 

That little children there in years to come 
Shall reverence my name. 

The waves are high before my vessel's prow; 

Once more I go to seek a land unknown ; 
The Lord of earth and ocean grants me now 

This one last voyage alone. 

My bed is drifting like a bark at sea ; 
Look you, where yonder two white angels 
stand, 

16 



The land birds of the Lord, to prove to me 
The shore is nigh at hand. 

This world's an island. Naught we have to 
leave, 
Who thought ourselves so rich while we did 
live. — 
''Into thy hands, Lord!'' Thou wilt receive 
The spirit Thou didst give! 



17 



THE WITCH- WIFE 

"/^ H, I have swept the hearth clean, 
^-^ Lest any ill betide, 
And I have fed the little babe 

And laid him at thy side ; 
The winds are ont with roar and shout, 
The mare-tails scud the sky about; 

This ane night, this ane night, 

John Andrew, let me ride ! 

'^Oh, I have spun the strong web, 

And bleached it white as snow, 
And I have baked, and brewed the ale. 

And set the tins arow ; 
'Tis All Souls ' Eve, my sisters grieve. 
They call nor with nor by your leave ; 

This ane night, this ane night, 

John Andrew, let me go!'' 

**If you have swept the hearth clean, 
It's by it you shall bide; 
The door is haspened for the night, 

And none shall set it wide. 
Think shame to you, and blame to you. 
To even name the godless crew I 

IS 



There's nae night, nor ae night, 
A wife of mine shall ride!'' 

^' A true wife IVe been to you 

This full year, as ye know. 
But hold me not beside the hearth 

The night the great winds blow. 
I'll catch the blast, for dawn comes fast, 
I shall be back when night is past ; 

This ane night, this ane night, 

John Andrew, I must go!" 

^^And if you go this ane night. 
For you are overbold. 
You'll come not back to fire and light, 
But stay out in the cold." 
*^Then farewell hearth, and cheer, and mirth, 
And christened babe, and friendly earth. 
For love that will not read aright 
Can neither let nor hold ! ' ' 



19 



ODE ON THE DEDICATION OF A 
COLLEGE 

Strophe. 

(Movement of Chorus to the right.) 

ENTER our portals, hospitable, wide, 
And these our stately halls. 
Whose marble panelling on either side 
In varied hue recalls 

The names of far-off states whose sons are we; 
Vermont and Tennessee. 

Let the wide-springing arch lead up thine eye. 
Until thou see on high 
The dome that seems the sky. 
See where our columns, nobly dedicate. 
Stand adequate, elate 

To bear the shielding wall and ponderous rafter, 
And flower beneath the weight. 
not for us they spring in ordered rows I 
Efficient in repose; 

And not for us these marble stairs that rise, 
A stately path to higher destinies. 
From story unto story, 
But for the feet of those who follow after, 
Our children, who shall happy be and wise, 

20 



Ours were the tears and theirs shall be the 

laughter, 
Ours was the work and they shall see the glory. 

Anti-Strophe. 
( Reverse movement to the left. ) 

Turn we away a moment from this place 

And from this living time, 

Until our hearts, receding, can retrace, 

In some dim, distant clime, 

Carthage, or Tyre, or Athens, who looked down 

Beneath her violet crown ; 

Within whose palaces the jackals cry, 

Or where their columns lie. 

Their halls yawn to the sky. 

Or think again of cities of the past, 

Whose temples though they last. 

House now the dregs of some degenerate nation, 

Beneath their portals vast. 

Nay, let us look, with shuddering and tears, 

Backward a few short years 

To where our sister city kept her state 

Luxurious beside the Golden Gate, 

And laughed in strength and power ; 

When lo ! a cry arose of lamentation, 

21 



And all her pleasant streets were devastate, 
And all her pride was dust and desolation, 
And all her beauty crumbled in an hour. 

Epode. 

( Chorus standing still, ) 

Except the Lord shall build the house, 
Lost is our labor and pain; 
Except the Lord the city keep, 
He who doth slumber not nor sleep. 
Though watchmen wake and guards arouse. 
Their waking is in vain. 
sons to be ! The promise of the state. 
Ye whom we fain would bless, 
The hope of all our land! 
'Tis men alone that make the nation great, 
And they whose hearts are fixed on righteous- 
ness 
By righteousness shall stand. 



22 



THE SHEAF 

r> EAUT Y ripens, soul that starvest ! 
'*-^ Golden treasure the upland yields. 
At the beginning of barley harvest, 
Came I into the magic fields. 

Ah ! The wealth is beyond your keeping, 
Noble kinsmen, who own the lands; 

Euth may gather where Boaz went reaping. 
Glean with eager and happy hands. 

See my sheaf with its poppies bleeding, 
Corn-flowers blue as the summer sea. 

Little of wheat for the faint hearths feeding, 
Less of the mystic sesame. 

Yet the grains that we clasp unite us ; 

Noble kinsmen, ye understand. 
This is the wonder, the Moabitess 

Free of the fields of Holy Land. 



23 



SONNETS 



THE HOUNDS OF ASURBANIPAL 

rr\ HE hounds of that dim king Assyrian 
^ Strain ever at the leash, and loud and 

clear 
Their deep-mouthed hunting-call we still may 

hear, 
As when of old the young, wild asses ran, 
And the proud lion, chaff before his fan, 
While, with firm-planted foot and levelled spear. 
The king, erect beside his charioteer. 
Led on the chase, a monarch and a man. 

Cut loose the leash of ages. Let them bay, 
Once more upon the flying quarry hurled ; 
Hurry them on with god-like brandishing. 
Dead and forgotten? Dust and ashes? Nay, 
Thy hounds deny it, crying through the world, 
The old salute, ''Forever live, King!'' 



27 



THE FORGE 

THE cavern 'd smitliy wrought the keel and 
prow 
Of mighty nations ; here the iron bar 
Was beaten to the sword to lead afar 
The hosts of venture ; here the knightly vow 
Rang with the anvil, loud resounding now ; 
Not clanging for the iron hooves of war, 
But fashioning, beneath a peaceful star, 
Shoes for the horses that shall draw the plow. 

Lo ! Here is work for heroes come again, 
For Thor or Vulcan or for Tubal-Cain, 
Iron and fire to smite in the red gorge. 
Better to toil than dream; to slay amain 
The thousand puny phantoms of the brain, 
And wield the mighty hammer of the forge. 



28 



THE ENGINEER 

T^ riTH iron-muscled hand and ready brain, 
^ ^ Clear-eyed, strong-hearted, firm of will 

and nerve. 
Fit to command although he seems to serve, 
We leave our lives to him and not in vain. 
For strong his soul and swift to meet the strain. 
And when death lies in wait beyond the curve. 
The fireman leaps, not he who scorns to swerve. 
But sets his brakes and dies to save his train. 

My father built the railroad, planned the line. 
Named cities where his lonely tent had stood, 
And left a name well-honored by his peers, 
And yet the heroes of his day and mine. 
Were merely members of the brotherhood 
Of unknown locomotive engineers. 



FOLLOWERS OF ULYSSES 

T TAPPY the hearts, the sons of men among, 
^ ^ That hear far voices calling all their 

days; 
Happy the keels that seek the unknown ways, 
That answer, while the winds of heaven give 

tongue. 
The joyous challenge by the spray outflung. 
Not barnacled, nor safe in sheltered bays. 
But daring still, for great Poseidon's praise. 
The swinging surge, ancient and ever young. 

Though we be old we hear the hollow sea ; 
Not Ithaca can hold us, nor the breast 
Of wife or son, but our foredoom must be 
Adventuring upon an endless quest ; 
Oar upon shoulder, we would follow thee. 
To find the Unknown Land ere we may rest. 



LAURA 

rpHAT lady, with whose praises Provence 
-■' rang, 

Exalted of all loved ones not the least. 
By whom her lover's fame and pain increased, 
And on whose name his deathless laurels hang, 
Such leaves of living song, to greet her, sprang. 
The emperor, what time the cithern ceased. 
Kissed her upon the forehead at the feast, 
Because of her so sweet a poet sang. 

My lady by a greater one was seen ; 

He, Death, the emperor of days and nights, 

Kissed her and drew her with him, swift and 

strong, 
And where her fragrant graciousness had been 
Was darkness and the smoulder 'd festal lights, 
And silence in the vacant house of song. 



81 



THE GEAVE AT HOME 

nn HY grave was here at home where loving 
-■■ care, 

Cypress and rose and ivy made it sweet, 
Yet were my outward journeys incomplete, 
To rest beside it might not be my share, 
For still the mandate drove me forth to fare. 
Nor yet ordained that peace and I should meet. 
And when the call compelled my pilgrim feet. 
It seemed to me I could not leave thee there. 

I bore thee in my heart o'er land and sea. 
Through thorny years across the world so wide. 
By northern rivers, rushing bold and free. 
In cities proud, by many a mountain-side; 
Where I have passed, thy grave was there with 

me, 
safe and blest who only once hast died ! 



32 



THE MOTHEE 

WHEN you were very little and my knee 
Was for your climbing eagerness too 
high, 
How would I bend me to your anxious cry, 
Catching you up, all trembling, unto me; 
Then would we cling together joyously. 
Blessing and blessed, my forehead was your 

sky, 
My orbed arms your universe, and I 
Your Providence and you my devotee. 

But now so far beyond me lies your way, 
I cannot mark it with my utmost sight, 
Nor what horizon draws your steady soul, 
Yet may I linger, justified, to-day; 
The bow that sped the arrow on its flight 
Exults although it shall not see the goal. 



33 



JUDGMENT 

SO hidden are our souls, if not by sin, 
By robes of reputation, and a mass 
Of veils of compromise, and pride's cuirass. 
And dear convention's cloak and capuchin, 
We have forgotten what we are within, 
And shall forget, till, stripped by death, we pass, 
And lo ! before the throne a sea of glass, 
And all who come to judgment look therein. 

As our first parents trembling sought the shade. 
Seeing their bodies naked in affright, 
Shrinking aside with horror in the heart. 
Shall we not see our souls and be afraid 
And turn away to hide us from the light? 
No need for that just voice to say, '^Depart/' 



S4 



WHO IS THIS? 

npHE Son of David, so of old men cried, 
-■- The Son of Mary, we reply to-day, 
And seemingly we have no more to say 
Of Him who walked Judea patient-eyed. 
Who taught and wrought and ultimately died, 
Leaving a lesson bidding men to pray, 
To love, to follow goodness, to obey, — 
But the sad world's heart is not satisfied. 

What hope for us is in His righteousness. 

Or in our own what saving do we see. 

Since in our hearts the Judgment Day begins? 

What profits it that He can heal and bless. 

If we be Magdalen and Pharisee? 

Nay, who is this who also forgiveth sins? 



35 



TEUTH 

VT lamp have I who am the perfect day ; 
^^ Men say they seek me, yet they fear to 

find, 
And many wrappings o'er their brows they 

bind. 
And droop their heads and stnmble on their 

way; 
The brave fear not, but trnst me though I slay, 
And walk upright ; nor cruel I nor kind ; 
Then raise thine eyes though thou be stricken 

blind, 
For others mock, but I do not betray. 

Beyond all mist and change I stand secure. 
Behind my rainbow veils magnificent. 
That glow and fade; to him who will endure. 
Who dares to seek me, humble, reverent, 
I give myself, the jewel lone and pure, 
The sole reward, the only punishment. 



36 



THE SHRINE 

npHE poet's art to me is like a shrine 
-*• That long ago gleamed on my dazzled 

sight ; 
Old beacons die but it remaineth bright, 
Honored and loved and tended and divine; 
A votive lamp beyond all reach of mine, 
A torch that flared through sorrow's dismal 

night ; 
The glare of noonday cannot dim its light. 
And through old age that altar still shall shine 

Desired and loved and never to be won, 

As empty arms may long to clasp a son. 

Where Paris like a jewelled woman smiled, 

I saw in the cathedral, dusky-aisled. 

One lighted shrine and there a shrouded nun, 

Who knelt before the Mother and the Child. 



87 



IN TIME OF FAILUEE 

TJECAUSE the gods have writ across the sky 
-" That you and I, dear heart, shall not 

succeed, 
Shall we refuse our unrecorded deed 
Or stifle down our ineffectual cry? 
That were to be disfranchised, you and I, 
To sit with idle hands and take no heed 
While honor fails, and civic virtues bleed, 
And flaunting cohorts of success go by. 

Then dare to fail. Not ours, not ours the crown, 
Although we strove and beggared, gave our 

best; 
Not ours the plaudits of the roaring town, 
The dancing flags, the victor's laurelled crest, 
Yet justified at last, we shall go down 
To silence and the recompense of rest. 



38 



LABOE 

T OED of the vineyard, pardon, if for rest 
■*-^ We sometimes cry, and think the work- 
day long, 
And dream that we could find a sweeter song 
In idle hours by duties unoppressed. 
In all thy universe, who singeth best 
With matins jubilant un vexed of wrong? 
The feathered mate whose wings are swift and 

strong. 
The mother-bird who helps to build the nest. 

Such grapes indeed as Eden never saw 

Thy briars yield, and, where the toiler stands. 

Song shall rejoice him, and he sees with awe. 

At evening looking forth upon the lands, 

A strange reversal of the ancient law, 

No curse so terrible as idle hands. 



39 



THE SONG OF SOEEOW 

rpHE song to reach men's hearts is not the 
-*■ grand, 

High chant of arms, or ringing praise of good, 
Or love, or joy; who would be understood 
Must learn to sing of sorrow; at command 
Of grief all men are kindred ; 'tis the band 
That knits to us the unknown multitude; 
The sure. Masonic sign of brotherhood. 
That all men know and all men understand. 

Then hearken to me, you who would be wise. 
No human heart but is a catacomb; 
However dull the outer stone appears. 
Dig deep, and you shall find with tender eyes, 
The blood of some obscure old martyrdom. 
And, in a shrine, a little vial of tears. 



40 



IN THE EANKS 

T SAW the long procession, mile on mile, 

^ Of human lives, down-marching to the 

grave, 
With captains and with heroes ; all the brave 
And laurelled heads; then thought I with a 

smiie, 
Who were the privates, now and otherwhile? 
What was the sea beneath the crested wave? 
Whose was the courage, basic, strong to save! 
Who but the women were the rank and file ! 

For not alone in laughter and light breath. 
We served, nor crowned with roses at your 

feasts. 
But where ye preached the truth or manned 

the guns ; 
And while we kept the gates of life and death, 
Ours was the piety that taught your priests, 
And ours the ardor that inspired your sons. 



41 



THE GEEEK DANCE 

^^^ he viols and the violins are strung, 
-■• And now a figure from the Grecian urn 
Wakes and moves forth for a brief hour's 

sojourn. 
This is the princess by old Homer sung, 
Nay, a bacchante with white arms upflung ; 
The soul of joy made manifest we learn. 
And see the day that never shall return. 
And taste the springtime when the world was 

young. 

toss the golden ball again ! and play 
With maidens on the Chalcidean shore ! 
Bring morning rapture back to sad to-day, 
And make the dull world joyous as of yore, 
For we are old and Greece is far away. 
Yet were we blessed if we might dream once 
more. 



42 



DANTE 



"II THAT shadow, gaunt and grave, with meas- 
■ ■ ured tread, 

This sunny morning walks beside me here, 
With folded lips and countenance severe. 
And piercing eyes, and darkly cowled head? 
^^He who has been in Hell'' the people said. 
For he alive did dare the regions drear. 
And saw abhorrent shapes and shades of fear, 
And now remains immortal with the dead. 



*^He who has been in Heaven" we rather say 
Thy higher vision let us not forget, 
And message thence, deathless Florentine ! 
song of stars ! rose of perfect day ! 
''His will is peace," that word is with us yet. 
Our lesson from the Comedy Divine. 



43 



OLD PAINTEES 

Giotto 

npHINE was the glow of dawn, and of the dew 
-*" Of the morning was thy birth, and 

brightly shone 
The sun that saw the shepherd boy unknown, 
The happy lad among the happy few. 
Who choosing truth thereby chose beauty too; 
Another David watching sheep alone. 
And when he drew an outline on a stone. 
Creation smiled and all things were made new. 

Where thy bright spirit lingers, who may tell? 
What flocks in what high pastures now it feeds? 
I think Dan Chaucer loveth thee right well. 
And on thy shoulder rests the book he reads. 
And points thee to the fields of asphodel, 
**So grew the daisies in our English meads.'' 



44 



Fra Angelico 

rp HE pure in heart shall see, and we are told 
-*■ The desert shall rejoice; so for a space 
The barren cloister blossomed and the grace 
Of beauty blessed that humble monk of old ; 
For him the gates of glory were unrolled, 
The narrow cell enshrined Madonna's face; 
Fair was the vision that he knelt to trace. 
To image for us Heaven's blue and gold. 

And so, because he wrought in humbleness, 
Because his life, and faith, and work were one. 
Because a little child may teach the wise, 
(And what are we to prate of more or less, 
Whom knowledge, wanting wisdom, hath 

undone?) 
Now we through him may look at Paradise. 



45 



Botticelli 

TOVER of lovely lines and faces fair, 

-■^ Our age of reason has mncli praise for 

you, 
Who painted Venus and Madonna too. 
And Simonetta with the wreathed hair. 
E'en so, good sooth; full little did you care. 
So that their locks and draperies lightly blew 
In the wind, what characters they were you 

drew; 
Pale saints, dim angels, Flora debonair. 
Your time was one of beauty and of woe. 
Crime's night and art's transcendent morning 

star. 
And yonder its analogy I find ; 
Your Judith, having slain her country's foe, 
Goes tripping lightly with the scimitar. 
Unmindful of the murdered head behind. 



46 



BALLADS 



THE LADY OF LLANDOVERY 



T 



HE lady at her mirror sat, how the lady 

sold her soul 



And dressed lier hair in vain, for beauty 
And as the mirror told the truth, 
She turned away again. 

And looking from the window high, 

She saw a simple thing ; 
Sir Owen, as he stooped to kiss 

The goose-girl by the spring. 

She flung the jewels from her neck, 

She tore her tresses free. 
And, ^ ' I would give my soul, ' ' she said, 

**Were I as fair as she.'' 

There came a sound of tinkling bells, 

A rare and strange perfume, 
A woman like a golden rose 

Was standing in the room. 

A crown of woven poppy flowers 

Her queenly head did deck. 
And heavy ropes of shining pearls 

Were looped about her neck. 

49 



And, ^^I am Lilith,'^ (so she said,) 
^^And these my pearls were paid, 

The souls that purchased beauty's lure, 
By many a lovely maid. 

*^And since you called on me,'' (she said,^ 
^^You have not called in vain, 
I need another pearl to-day 
To lengthen out my chain." 

The lady to her mirror looked; 

wondrous cheek and chin ! 
She turned and sped her down the stair, 

To let Sir Owen in. 



How Sir Owen gip Owcu ou the morrow's morn, 
her soul He walked beside his prize. 

And laughed aloud for happiness 
And love of her sweet eyes. 

And if she said that white was black, 
Or blue the greenwood tree. 

He drew her shining hair aback, 
' ' So be it, dear ! ' ' said he. 

50 



The lady walked beside her love, 
And her cheek went white and red, 
'^He loveth this fair mask of me 
And not myself, ' ^ she said. 

' * late last night, ' ' she cried to him, 
^*I had a ghostly dream! 
I saw a linn, and I was there, 
A salmon in the stream. 

*'One, horned and hoofed, stood on the bank. 
And cast for me his net ; 
I dreamed that if you loved my sonl. 
That you might save me yet.'' 

He caught her by the mantle blue, 
^'That was a truthful dream. 

Small marvel that he fished for you, 
Fair salmon in the stream ! ' ' 



He drew her glittering hair apart, 
And then he laughed outright, 
^'What need have you of soul, sweetheart. 
Who have a neck so white!'' 

51 



The lady on the morrow's morn, ^rougtrd'oTm^ 
She veiled her shining grace ; upon them both 

''I would he loved me still/' she said, 
* * Though he saw not my face. ' ' 

He led her with him to the fair 

And mingled with the crowd ; 
The people turned and followed them, 

And muttered long and loud. 

The lady trembled in her veils, 

Lest any blood be spilt. 
For though his sword was in the sheath, 

His hand was on the hilt. 

A laughing lordling sprang, and tried 
To snatch her hand, and failed ; 
*^Your leave! for I would see," he cried, 
'*This woman that goes veiled!'' 

quick the leaping swords are out 
And one quick sheath hath found ! 

Sir Owen, who could stand so straight, 
Is lying on the ground. 

'^0 dust and ashes must I eat. 
And low shall lie my head ! 

52 



For had I been a foul woman, 
My lord had not been dead. 

^^Now never mass shall housel me, 
And never priest shall shrive ! 
For had I been a good woman. 
My lord had been alive. 

**And better were the Judgment Day 
Than such a doom to fill ! 
For this the price that I must pay, 
That men shall love me still." 



53 



QUEEN YSABEAU'S HUNTING 

nn HE stag was at bay on an antumn day, 
^ And a strange thing did befall; 
And the little birds of the wood 
Saw it all, saw it all. 



The river from the fields of green 

Flows through the royal town, 
And other freight than ladies gay 

The river carries down. 

For drifting corpses, so they tell, 

At matin- time are seen ; 
Short shrift and never a passing bell 

For the lovers of the queen. 

And children waking in the night 

May hear a sudden cry ; 
But the Seine runs deep, the Seine runs fast. 

And palace walls are high. 

Our lord, the king, upon the floor. 

He plays with puppets there. 
Woe worth the land, whose king is mad. 

And whose queen is passing fair ! 
54 



Let other women mind their steps 

And tell their beads and sigh ! 
Not she, not she, the gay and proud, 

Whom God hath set so high. 

Let other women pray, not she, 

Whom God hath made so fair, 
For Lilith the witch, that children dread, 

Hath not snch golden hair. 

Her hunting-train swept o 'er the bridge, 

To seek the forest glade. 
And never an honest heart, I trow. 

In all that cavalcade. 

The nobles at her bridle-rein 

To-day they are but three. 
The Count of Tours, and the Sire d'Auvergne, 

And the Lord of Picardie. 

They entered into the deep forest 

By the forge as it did betide, 
And who but the farrier's stalwart son 

Stood forth to see her ride. 

a neck of brawn and clustering curls 
And a ruddy cheek had he ! 

55 



* * Give back, give back, my lords of France, 
For he shall ride with me ! " 

They have set him on the huntsman's horse; 

he doth need, I ween, 
A steady hand and a gallant heart. 

Who rideth with the qneen ! 

fast the pace, and mad the race. 

For youth doth know no fear! 
And he and she are the only ones 

To see the mort o' the deer. 

What word was that she whispered him. 

As he bent to her embrace ? 
The lubberly yokel started back 

And struck her in the face! 

a woman's hand is quick and white 

And strong as it is fair ! 
She has stretched him dying at her feet 

With the bodkin from her hair. 

^'Parterre! Parterre! Hah! Halleli!'' 
The horn sounds loud and clear; 

The hunt comes rushing down the glade, 
To wind the mort o' the deer. 
56 



^ ^ Now see, my lords, if ^twas well done, 

I stand and ask of you ; 
And whoso gives assent shall kiss 

The blood upon my shoe. ' * 

down they lighted on the grass 

And quickly bent the knee ! 
The Count of Tours, and the Sire d'Auvergne, 

And the Lord of Picardie. 

then her scorn flashed from its sheath, 
Like lightning through the trees ! 

* * Small wonder, Lord ! what women be. 

When men are such as these ! 

*'Ye kiss my hands, ye lick my foot. 

Ye call my garments clean. 
But here was a man who dared to die 

For the honor of his queen. 

* ^ Ye shall not cast him to the crows. 

Like an unbaptized hound; 
Ye shall bear his body, with book and bell, 
To consecrated ground. 

^^And craven puppets are ye all. 
From east and west and south! 

57 



God knows he was at least a man, 
Who struck me on the mouth ! ' ' 



Eed were the leaves in the autumn wood, 
When the stag to his death did fall ; 

And the little birds of the wood 
Saw it all, — saw it all. 



58 



GABRIEL AND MICHAEL 

ly/TICHAEL, the Archangel of the host of 
-*-•*- heaven, 

Haughty and untender, he who bears the 
sword, 

Spreads exultant pinions o'er wide river 
canyons ; 
He loves the splendor, the glory of the Lord. 

Sound of many waters, earth's one sound 
eternal. 
Falling as in duty, calling from the height; 
Michael stoops to listen where the spray drops 
glisten ; 

''Here be strength and beauty for our King's 
delight!" 

Gabriel, who remembers Nazareth and Mary, 

Seeks the noisome city, smiling to explore 
Foul and evil-smelling, crowded court and 
dwelling. 

For the love and pity, the patience of the 
poor. 



Toiling care-worn mothers, clinging baby fin- 
gers,— 

' * Hail ! A new evangel ! ' ^ said the angel then, 
** More than starry spaces are the human faces. 

Higher than the angels are the hearts of 



See! Beyond the sunset, bearing blossoms 
flaring, 
Love and strength in cycle of brotherly 
accord. 
Messenger and warrior, up the pathway 
starrier, 
Gabriel and Michael mounting to the Lord. 



60 



THE CRYSTAL-GAZER 

rjECAUSE I am lame, and brown, and fey, 
-■-' And love no man, nor am loved, (they 

say,) 
I see the shades of what shall befall, 
And I can read in the crystal ball. 

(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

I read the future, you pay my toll. 
Not gold, but a mass for a dead man's soul, 
Who died a traitor, and he who slew 
Thrust fairly, for I would have killed him too. 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

I sat in the Countess' bower alone. 
And dreamed by the magic crystal stone; 
A snatch of a song rose on the air. 
And Sir Walter clanked up the turret stair. 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 



* * fair, brown Maud, whom I love, ' ' said he, 
^*0f the morrow's combat I question thee, 
If I or Richard shall win the prize ? 
For a happy omen, I kiss your eyes. ' ' 
. (Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

61 



I gazed in the crystal ball a space, 
But naught could I see but Sir Walter ^s face, 
And in my ears rose a mocking din 
Of voices crying, *^The true shall win'/' 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

^'I see the future, I read it true. 
The victor to-morrow shall be you!'' 
For never the crystal had lied to me, 
But he kissed my eyes and I could not see. 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

So lightly he went to his bloody death, 
And cursed my name with his dying breath, 
And when his corselet they wrenched apart. 
The Countess' favor was on his heart. 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 

Since then, by the crystal ball I sit, 
Beyond all future or fear of it ; 
But you, who still have a thing to fear, 
dare you question the coming year? 
(Who shall smile to-morrow?) 



62 



MOLLIE LINDSAY 

WHERE gat ye the red rose, 
Mollie Lindsay? 
Nay, ^tis on your cheek it glows ; 
Think you when that I'm away, 
You can trick me night or day? 
You can kiss and nothing shows? 
You can kiss and no one knows, 
Mollie Lindsay? 

Where learned ye the new song, 

Mollie Lindsay? 
Nay, you have not known it long ; 
'Tis a soldier's tavern rouse, 
Little fit to call the cows ; 
Think you, ye can do me wrong? 
Eeck you not my hand is strong, 

Mollie Lindsay? 

Do you stand when you should start, 

Mollie Lindsay? 
Do you smile when you should smart? 
Think you, ye can go shot-free? 
You shall have a rose of me ! 
Quick my dirk can do its part, 
See ! the red rose on your heart, 

Mollie Lindsay. 

63 



MISCELLANEOUS 



THE CENTEAL TOWER 

rpHE central tower of thy soul 
-■• Is thine to keep, guard it well ! 
Though outward ramparts crashing roll, 
Let nought subdue that citadel. 

Not happiness and not despair, 
Not woe or dread or loss or pain ; 

If thou wilt hold thee steady there, 
Earth shall support and sky sustain. 

But if the garrison shall fail, 
Betray, or undermine in fright, 

Although no outer foe assail. 

The walls shall crumble in a night. 

But if thou fail not, then thy towers 
In peace are bastioned, firm and strong. 

By principalities and powers, 
That to eternity belong. 



67 



HEE FEUITS 

nn HESE are her fruits, kindness and gentle- 
-■• ness, 

And gratefully we take them at her hands ; 
Patience she has, and pity for distress, 
And love that understands. 

Ah ! ask not how such rich reward was won. 
How sharp the harrow in the former years. 
Or mellowed in what agony of sun, 
Or watered with what tears. 



68 



INTAGLIO 

ACEOSS the flowers and the festal glare 
I saw your face, so gentle and so cold ; 
The mute, inscrutable eyes, by moonlit hair 
Austerely aureoled. 

I wonder, so divining you have trod. 

One of the crowd, yet so remote from them, 
In what white heat the image of the god 
Was graven on the gem. 



THE STONE GODS 

/^"^UT of the rock I hewed them, 
^■^ Laboring day by day. 
Godhead at last endued them, 
Till I could fall and pray. 

Proof of my sore repenting, 
Finished they faced the sea. 

Pitiless, unrelenting. 
Grave as the gods should be. 

Strong, implacable faces! 

Dawn, as it climbed the skies. 
Saw their anointed bases 

Bed with my sacrifice. 

Up from the wattled village. 
Breasting the mountain-side. 

Tithe of my scanty tillage, 
Burned I at eventide. 

Had I a meed for my labors ? 

Have I reward for my prayers. 
More than my careless neighbors. 

Giving no heed to theirs? 



70 



still on the eastward highland, 

Tarry my gods of stone, 
On the deserted island, 

Fronting the dawn alone. 

Grim, colossal, terrific. 
Stern as the gods have been. 

Watching the wide Pacific, 
Witness of things unseen. 

Now that I've passed Death's portal, 
Grone to the farther shade, 

This of me, bides immortal ; 
These are the gods I made. 



71 



ANGELUS 

A LONELY sea-bird cries and wheels about ; 
Ah! linger ere we take our parted way. 
What pomp of cloudy banners ushers out 
The going of the day! 

Here sea and shore make mystic border-land, 

Here the wet sands repeat the glowing skies ; 
So my soul answers thine, yet while we stand, 
Behold, the glory dies. 

The beauty wanes, the rapture fails, yet part, 

I dream, of all that glory and that gold. 
Perhaps some dauntless, yet submissive heart, 
Might capture and might hold. 

Those gates of morning open not for us, 

Ours is the sunset and the falling surge, 
The failing light, the evening Angelus, 
Whose calling is a dirge. 






Hail!*' said the angel to the handmaid meek. 
Hail!'* evermore repeat those triple bells. 
But unto us forevermore they speak 
All partings, all farewells ; 



72 



Like vibrant beat of evanescent wings, 

Like iridescent colors on the sand, 
Or sob of the reluctant tide that clings 
And yet must leave the land. 

All partings, all renouncement, fruitless cost ! 
Mother of sorrows? Nay, but such is she. 
Who feared the angelic visitant and lost 
The greater destiny. 



n 



ASH-WEDNESDAY 

LUST of the flesh that cries, 
-^ Pleasure, and of the eyes 

Lust, 
See where your rapture dies, 
Look where your beauty lies ; 
Dust. 

Pride of life that is strong, 
You we have loved so long. 

Pride, 
Honors, rewards that throng, 
Here your glory and song 

Hide. 

Bow down dust, to dust! 
Be, as such kindred must, 

Wise. 
Wait, for the end is just; 
Seeds that ye hold in trust 

Eise. 



74 



TO A POET 

YOU are the shell that sings to me ; 
I bend mine ear and listen well, 
To hear the secret of the sea, 
For you have mysteries to tell; 
You are the shell. 

You are the harp, 'twixt sky and ground, 

Set on a windy, steep escarp, 
And men shall smile and praise the sound 

That wrings your chords with anguish sharp ; 
You are the harp. 

The winds that shake, the tides that stir 
Are not from you, but you shall be 

A witness, an interpreter, 

Of heaven's breath and that deep sea, 
Eternity. 



75 



THE SPEAKER 

WE knew that life had lost its zest, 
That death should hold us all at bay, 
That youth is short, and joy at best 

The firefly of a night in May, 
And so we waited, half in jest. 
For what that woman had to say. 

She spoke, and we, who heard her, saw 
All human lives of pride or shame, 

Impelled by some stupendous law, 
A surging ocean without name. 

Until at last those waters draw 

Back to the skies from whence they came. 

And to that ocean, dim and vast, 

In futile circles, ring on ring. 
Pleasure and pain seem pebbles cast, 

And happiness a little thing. 
And sorrow but a sea-mist past, 

Not worthy the remembering. 



76 



For ** Service'^ was the word she spake; 

Such word is priestly and doth shrive ; 
This bread of life we all might take ; 

We rose up strong to bear or strive, 
And eager for the morn to break, 

For we were glad to be alive. 



77 



THE TITHE OF LITTLE THINGS 

rp HE greater matters of our moral law 
-*• By heritage and right to you belong; 
Life's heavy dues you pay without a flaw, 
Unflinching, bold and strong. 

Great virtues you would lavish without stint, 
And yet some tithe my heart would claim the 
while 
Of anise and of cumin and of mint, 

The kind word and the smile. 

Are you absolved by wealth of intellect? 

By will and purpose, royal like a king 's ! 
Nay, right is wronged if such as you neglect 
The tithe of little things. 



78 



AT TINTAGEL 

rilHE sea, that sings the passing of our race, 
-'■ Guarded this castle, greatest in the land, 
And on these heights the vestige still we trace 
Of what was boldly planned. 

These roofless halls knew many a wild carouse ; 
Now the sheep crop them, nosing day by day 
The altar where the warriors made their vows. 
Ere going forth to slay. 

Here where the grass is wreathed with fairy 
rings. 
There where the crumbling crenellations rise, 
I see dim shapes of half-forgotten kings 
And queens with starry eyes. 

The shout of strong, exultant men I hear, 

The ring of harness on the causeway-stone. 
The clash of arms comes faintly to the ear. 
And bugle-horns are blown. 

What profits it, the ancient tale oft told 
Of love or tournament or bloody fight? 
If Guinevere's deep hair were royal gold. 
Or Yseult's hands were white? 

79 



Dead, dead are ihej, and gone with all their 
train, 
Dead, dead are they, or haply never were ; 
Perchance the phantoms of the misty brain 
Of some old chronicler. 

And yet the moan of the remembering sea, 

The ancient winds, like pardoners to shrive, 
Eepeat their names ; Ah ! no ; not they, but we, 
Have never been alive. 



80 



THE LONGFELLOW HOUSE AT 
POETLAND 

'T^HIS is the home that his boyhood knew, 
That good poet whose songs we know; 
Here he studied and played like you, 
Here at last to a man he grew, 
Year by year in the long ago. 

Noble his life was, free from stain ; 

Love and honor to him belong ; 
Here he wrote of the sun and rain. 
Here he minted for us again 

Many a treasure of foreign song. 

This is his table, that his chair. 
Where he sat in the twilight dim ; 

Shut your eyes, you may see him there, 

But his statue is in the square ; 
So his city has honored him. 

Little sons, there is much to do. 

Though no statue shall be our prize ; 

Men are needed, the brave and true. 

Some fair city is calling you, 
Wheresoever her roofs may rise. 



81 



Under the elms or afar from these, 

Where in the land of the dreamy South, 
Live-oaks droop in the morning breeze. 
Or where the western pepper-trees 
Burn like flames at the harbor's mouth, 

Some fair city, in trade or art. 

School or college needs you to-day. 
If, undaunted, you do your part. 
Earnest purpose and honest heart. 
Know that surely she will repay. 

Then some day, in the evening brown, 
May you come, with your labor past, 
Honored hands to be folded down. 
Back once more to your own dear town, 
Never to be ashamed at last. 



82 



A LITTLE GIEL IN THE WEST 

California Poppies 

THE flowers, like pictures on a screen, 
Can show strange things to you ; 
A lady told me, who had seen 
The field of Waterloo, 

How every summer comes a flood 

Of poppies like a tide. 
To make you think of all the blood 

Of all the men who died. 

But here the poppies are unrolled 

All yellow on the ground. 
To make you think of all the gold, 

That all the miners found. 

Big Trees 

rriHEY said those trees lived on and on, 
^ Though all the world might change. 
And they were huge and marvellous ; — 
I did not think them strange. 



I always knew there were such trees; 

They seemed just right to me, 
And just the size you would expect 

A giant's tree to be. 

I could not find the giant's door, 

It was so rough and brown ; 
And then, just as we turned to go, 

He dropped a fir-cone down. 

Some day, when I am very brave, 

I know what I shall do, 
I'll rub it three times in the dark, 

And see the giant too. 

Lick Observatory 

rpHE guardian said (my hand he took), 
-■- ^ ^ I '11 show you pretty things ; 
Now through the great, black tube you'll look 
At Saturn and his rings. ' ' 

I looked and saw a golden world, 

Happy and grand and free, 
And through the deep, blue sky he whirled 

And did not think of me. 



84 



He was alive ! I saw him burn ! 

It seemed an awful thing, 
To spy on him, and see him turn, 

And almost hear him sing. 

They took me down, I ran outside, 

Out to the garden walk 
To be alone, and almost cried. 

And did not want to talk. 

Then up above I saw him whirl, 
High in the heavens' deep blue, 

^^Yes, yes, I am the little girl, 
Who dared to look at you ! ' ' 

Yellowstone Canyon 

rpHE waterfall leaped for gladness, 
-■■ Because the cliff was high. 
And I stood close beside it, 

Between the earth and the sky. 

An eagle sailed below me. 

And stopped and sailed once more. 
And everything seemed to know me; 

I must have been there before. 



85 



The sky was blue above me, 
The water beneath was green, 

And everything seemed to love me ; 
The eagle sailed between. 

The bright rocks sang in the sunlight, 
In yellow and crimson bands. 

And all the trees of the forest 

Shouted and clapped their hands. 



86 



THE HEAVEN-SOARING LARK 

rilHE heaven-soaring lark, its rapture spent 
-■• On morning's quest, 

Drops down again, soul-satisfied, content. 
Unto the nest. 

singing soul, chafe not, that by earth's chain, 

Thou seemest bound ! 
The sky's true messenger did ne'er disdain 

The lowly ground. 



87 



LOVE 

\7'E who still measure praise or blame, 
-■■ Ye know him not, 'tis very clear. 
For love hath never heard of shame, 
And smileth in the face of fear. 

He walketh calm and open-eyed; 

How should he, in his perfect ways, 
Stoop from his high estate to pride, 

Or narrow the beloved by praise? 



88 



LIFE 

npHOU the changeless, the changing, with 
^ never a resting-place. 
Torch that never goes out, though the runners 

fail in the race, 
What shall we do with thy light, lent us a little 

space ? 

Dreaming that for ourselves, we shall attain or 

fail, 
Blinded, baffled, intent, battling against the gale, 
Only as thee we serve, so shall our prayers 

prevail. 

Spark from an infinite fire, flare o'er a tremu- 
lous sea, 
Glimmering cresset of time, mocking eternity, — 
Brother! I sink to the dark! Catch thou the 
brand from me I 



SOREOW 

nnHERE is no consolation, no reward; 
-■■ Broken we are, who meet thy flaming 
sword ; 
Yet heaven we dimly see by thee alone. 
The chief of the immortals we have known. 



90 



TO A CHILD 

FLOWEE of life, so bitter in the breaking, 
Opening to perfection in my hand, 
Heeding naught of the impending strife, 
Strange that we, all other things forsaking. 
Choose thee, though we may not understand. 
Flower of life. 

Little breath, our sorrow and our glory, 
Thou must go the inevitable way, 
Time at last shall claim thee, little breath ; 
Thou canst not escape the old, old story, 
Soon or late, and thou shalt be, one day. 
Flower of death. 

Flower of mine, there is a hope we cherish, 
Little one, a mother's heart is fond. 
Grasping mysteries to make them thine ; 
Claiming love that will not let thee perish. 
But to blossom, life and death beyond. 
Flower divine. 



91 



THE OPPEESSED 

np HE heavy burdens of our lot, 
-*• That ground and crushed us in the past, 
And hid thy heaven, shall they not 
Be counted to our gain at last? 

Although our faith have not sufficed. 

Accept us by our toil and loss; 
Not Christopher to bear the Christ, 

But Simon who hath borne the Cross. 



d2 



THE SEA 

SPAEKLING crests and the foam's white 
crown, 
Hiding gulfs where the wrecks go down, 
Hiding toll of the men who drown. 

No such blame to the earthly grave, 
Folding the old, the laughing wave 
Snatches the young, the strong, the brave. 

Treasures untold such tithings be, 
Careless largess we have of thee. 
Light reward for our tears, sea ! 

How many lives since Salamis? 
And in return, you toss us this ; 
Pearl or coral or ambergris. 



93 



THE KALEIDOSCOPE 



w 



E are but colored bits in Nature's glass; 
Our work, our love, ambition and 
despair 
Make but her pictures as the seasons pass ; 
Hers is the hand that turns us unaware. 
^^Ah! stay,'' we sometimes cry, "our life is 

fair. 
Let us abide! This is our resting-place." 
But she, who loveth change and patterns new. 
With steady hands and absent, smiling face. 
Turns the great glass, and lo ! our days are few; 
Our fragments go to build some newer race. 



94 



TWO STATUES 

/^ F all the fair, imagined sisterhood, 
\^ Two wake my fancy, beckon my desire, 
And rouse my courage in this later day, 
Which has forgot the morning song and shine 
In dust of petty practice. One is she, 
Free-stepping Artemis, the island-born, 
Goddess and maiden, armed and unafraid. 
The other is that noble dream come true. 
The marble woman of the Vatican, 
That Caryatid, calm, sufficient, carved 
Aforetime for our learning, who still stands 
Erect, unweary, with far-gazing eyes. 



95 



A WINTER SUNSET 

npHERE is a forge in the west, 
^ Far in the west and low; 
I cannot hear its hammers beat, 
But down the length of the city street, 
I see its fires aglow. 

And turning to ashes grey, 

Wrecks of the old day lie ; 
I cannot hear the hooves and yet 
The feet of the night's black horses fret, 

Eager to mount the sky. 



96 



THE CAMP ON THE PEAIRIE 

HERE let lis rest, here ends our way ; 
The shadows, see, begin 
To drop the curtains of the day, 
And fold the twilight in. 

And ere our evening meal be spread, 

Most freely to us lent, 
The lamps eternal overhead 

Light up our arching tent. 

Our wagon, resting dimly by. 

Comes of a noble train. 
For low before us, in the sky. 

Is swinging Charles' Wain. 

Here envyings and terrors cease ; 

We find it once again. 
The tabernacle of His peace. 

Beyond the strife of men. 



97 



THE ROAD OF SONG 

WHEN the great god Balder woke in the 
early morning, 
Rose up happy and eager, beautiful, tall and 
strong, 
Bent his strength to the plowshare, ease and 
indulgence scorning. 
Strode on, blithe and light-hearted, pushing 
the furrow along. 
All the plants of the wayside, buoyant, broke 
into blossom. 
All the birds of the forest, joyful burst into 
song. 

When the great god Balder sat in the dewy 
gloaming. 
Threw the sweat from his bosom, loosened his 
buskin thong, 
Low he laughed in contentment, ^'Toil and the 
night's home-coming. 
These shall be man's endeavor, these to his 
joy belong; 
Toil and rest and a blessing, these shall endure 
forever. 
This is the path of blossom, this is the road of 
song.'' 



THE SHADOW 

ABOVE the summer grasses, 
My dear and only one, 
What sudden shadow passes 
Between us and the sun? 

What cold surmise of danger 

To daunt the very brave ? 
You laugh, ''Perhaps some stranger 

Is treading on your grave.'' 

Nay, this is what appals me. 
This woe my heart endures, 

Each time I walk the green earth, 
I'm treading over yours. 



99 



SUMMER WIND 

SO many ills of life we cannot cure, 
So many woes that darken and defile ;- 
Sudden the wind blew down the sunny road, 
Puffing the dust, a light and transient load;- 
One thing remains, aye two I see endure, 
Mortality's light dust, and strong and pure, 
The breath of God that raises it awhile. 



100 



EOSE OR CLEMATIS? 

YOU, of old, were like a rose, gold-liearted. 
Guarded, not for vulgar eyes to see ; 
In the castle close where they would hide you, 
I, a man-at-arms, by chance espied you, 
Then a thousand years ago we parted 
Silently. 

But to-day you are a wayside flower. 
Beauty on lifers highway you employ; 
All men love but I alone may claim you ; 
How, light and perfume, shall I name you 1 
Fair and fragrant, you are Virgin's Bower, 
Traveller's Joy. 



101 



A LOVE SONG 

r^ SUMMER world of green and gold, 
^-^ With blue of sea and arching skies! 
Your blessed mornings see unfold 
The fringed gentians of her eyes. 

pageant of the days and nights, 
With march of dawn and sunset's flame! 

Your greater and your lesser lights 
Are signals that repeat her name. 

Between the future and the past, 
Between old griefs and fears to be. 

This miracle is wrought at last, 
My only love is loving me. 



102 



IN AN OPEEA HOUSE 

( Top Gallery. ) 

TOOK! It is Dante's Kose 

■■— ^ Where the Blessed shine, tier on tier, 

In glittering, burnished rows, 
But its perfect flower is here. 
On a line with the chandelier; 

And the heart of it all, who knows 1 
Except yon and me, my dear. 

'tis a gorgeous sight 

Spread downward before our eyes! 
With shimmering petals bright ; 

The music exultant, tries 

To conquer the very skies; 
And you and I, for to-night 

At least, are in Paradise. 



103 



TO TIME 

BECAUSE the fear of death had made me 
bold, 
I dared to challenge you from day to day, 
I clutched your garment, slipping from my hold, 
And called on you to stay. 

Because my work unfinished yet might be. 

Still, desperate, I must contend and strive; 
I mind me how you seemed to mock at me. 
What time I was alive. 

As one who saw the landscape fitting by 

The train that bore him to a distant clime, 
I thought you fled ; it was not you but I 

Who passed beyond you. Time. 



104 



THE KING^S GAEDEN 

WHAT is the way to the King's garden? 
Tell me, messenger!'' 
'^Why do you ask for the King's garden, 
Weary traveller? 
Stony upland or sandy plain. 

All is the King's domain." 

**Nay, but I long for the King's garden, 

All my toil is for this ; 
How may I win to peace or pardon, 

If I the way should miss?" 
** Those who keep to the broad highway. 

Find it at close of day." 

'*Nay, but the road is foul and dripping. 

And the throng is mean ; 
Fain would I keep my feet from slipping. 

Fain would arrive there clean." 
*^ Through the mire and through the clay. 

There is no other way." 



105 



THE SOUL'S HIGHWAYS 

IV/TANY roads lead outward, restless soul, 
1 ▼ X Many paths invite thine eager wings ; 
Music, loosing thee from care's control; 

Who can falter while the spirit sings! 
Beating up to some celestial goal. 

Far beyond the thought of earthly things. 

Art, the statue, silent to enthrall, 
Eloquent to hint some nobler plan. 

Or the line upon the crumbling wall, 
Witnessing infinity to man, 

How I know not, yet I hear their call 
Urging me to more than mortal can. 

Science, — ^Ah! be humble, bow the head! 

Worlds on worlds in least infinities ; 
She, God's handmaid, at His altar fed, 

Warder of the sacred mysteries, 
In humility when all is said 

Brings her dazzled follower to his knees. 



106 



Many roads lead outward, restless soul, 
Many pointing paths attempt the skies ; 

And at last awaits, supreme and sole, 
Just beyond the ultimate hills that rise, 

Pinnacle to life's imperfect whole, 
Death, the divine surprise. 



107 



QUAKER MEETING 

MANY the fanes that rise, 
Stately, gorgeous and tall ; 
Here are fabric and aisle 
Silent and bare and plain; 
One of the paths to the skies, 
That our fathers trod withal. 
So I sit and ponder awhile 
On some sayings hard to explain. 

To him that hath shall be given, 
And I wonder much thereat. 
If the meek inherit the earth, 
For I may not understand ; 
Yet they who challenged heaven 
From the seven-tiered zikkurat, 
Brought naught that remains to birth 
Save dust and the desert sand. 



108 



Babylon, Gate of God, 
So was their city called; 
Nay, He disdained their gate, 
And gave them woe for pride. 
When the foot of the Persian trod 
Their palaces, rainbow- walled. 
And they drank the cnp of their fate. 
And knew it before they died. 

What if the lowly sonl 
Shall hear the still, small voice. 
After the thunder's wrath. 
After the fire and fear? 
What if the Lord of the whole 
Hath set the tent of his choice 
Low in the narrow path? 
What if the Gate be here? 



109 



THE SEVEN SINS 

T T was noon on the Judgment Day, 
-■• The trumpetings died away; 
Heaven's jfloor was garnished and clean, 
As though sinners had never been ; 
By justice or by grace, 
Each had gone to his destined place. 

For the expectation blest. 

At last was made manifest. 

And the stars took up their song. 

Once interrupted long, 

The shout of creation new, 

And but one thing remained to do. 

' ' Stand up, Deadly Sins ! 

For your trial now begins. 

guilty and outcast Seven, 

Stand forth on the floor of Heaven ! 

It is noon on the Judgment Day, 

And what have ye Seven to sayf 



110 



Each raised a blemistied head, 

And, ^^We have served God," they said. 

^'For Heaven's harvest vast 

Is the seed that our hands have cast, 

In the wind of onr monstrous pain. 

Was the chatf upswept from the grain.'' 

Their garments glimmered red, 

^' Yea, we have praised God," they said. 

'^When others sneered and denied. 

We proved Him and justified ; 

And the shining saints arow. 

To us and to ours, ye owe." 

Then the Lord said, *^Your work is done. 
Lo! the beams of my noonday sun!" 
And He smiled on the seven sins; 
And as drift when a thaw begins. 
Each sank in the radiant glow, 
To a little heap of snow. 
And Pride was the last to go. 



Ill 



THE MIDNIGHT MASS 

rriHE stars were still and very bright, 
-■- And very still and cold the night, 
The village street was white with snow; 
From the tall dark church to where the light 
Of the tavern lamp made a distant glow, 
It seemed a path, it was so white. 
Whereon some holy thing might go. 

It is the blessed Christmas night. 
Why are the cabins shuttered tight? 
Why is the church so dark and still? 
The stars look down with watchful eyes ; 
From where the window glimmers far, 
Come sounds of wassail from the bar, 
And that is all. Will no one rise 
To do God service? Yes, one will. 
Though priest and lord and squire forget, 
A woman shall remember yet. 



112 



She slipped from out the cottage door, 
Her goodman sleeping sound in bed. 
Hers was a dwelling of the poor, 
Where poverty with toil had wed. 
Youthful she was, with earnest eyes 
Beneath her hidden brows and hair, 
And sweet and calm of face ; the shawl 
Folded her forehead Virgin-wise, 
And in her hand a taper small, 
A trifle pitiful to dare 
To offer to the Lord of all. 

Towards the deserted church she went. 
A homeless dog, who saw her go, 
Crept from his shelter by the wall, 
Fawning, and at her greeting low. 
Followed behind her, well content. 
Their footprints left, at every fall, 
Black holes behind them in the snow. 
Tracking the drifted steps below 
The ancient portal, arched and tall. 



113 



Shall dogs profane the holy place? 
He looked up, doubtful, to her face, 
One foot half -raised, prepared for flight, 
Yet hoping still. ' ^ Nay, come, ' ' said she, 
^ ^ If on that other Christmas Night, 
The ox and ass, knee-deep in hay. 
Might watch His blest nativity, 
He will not turn the dogs away. ' ' 

Within, how strange and cold the gloom ! 

The windows, gorgeous-hued by day, 

Seemed ghostly watchers ; on a tomb, 

Cross-legged, a dead crusader lay. 

And where the woman knelt to pray. 

The pavement slabs gleamed black and damp; 

Far off, the sanctuary lamp 

Beneath the rood was faintly seen ; 

The twelve apostles on the screen 

Looked lonely in the twilight dim. 

The dog, who snuffed with nose discreet 

His likeness at the dead knight's feet. 

Started aside with sudden bound. 

His ears erect, — the marble hound 

Had turned and looked at him. 



114 



Twelve strokes came crasliing from tlie tower, 
Shaking the walls with sudden power. 
The woman passed the altar screen, 
And breathing low the holy Name, 
Set on a stand her taper mean, 
And leaving there its puny flame, 
Went back, and having done her part. 
Knelt down and lifted up her heart. 

O soft the little taper blazed! 

And others caught the light; 

The woman gazed, abashed, amazed. 

To see the gracious sight, 

And many voices rising, praised 

God's goodness in the night. 

The relics, where the martyrs lie 

Below the altar, sang; 
Triforium and clerestory. 

And upper arches rang. 

^^Holy, Holy, Holy Lord," 

blessed blood once spilt! 
The knight upraised the marble sword, 

And kissed the gleaming hilt. 



115 



^^Holy, Holy, Holy Lord/' 

The carven saints bowed down, 

King Edward in tlie west window 
Knelt and laid down his crown. 

And still the solemn organ pealed, 
And incense hid the shrine. 

Until the golden doors unsealed, 
At touch of rays divine. 

And on the altar stood revealed 
The wafer and the wine. 

And did that glory fall or rise ? 

The beams shone through the haze, 
As when the sun in clouded skies 

Draws water with his rays; 
The emblem of all mysteries. 

The meeting of the ways. 

And when at last the glory died, 

And silence fell profound, 
The woman might no longer bide. 
But went her way, with stars to guide. 

Still followed by the hound. 



116 



But still for her that anthem rang, 

And still her heart within her sang, 

**As Thou hast shown Thy righteousness 

And favor unto me, 
So surely wilt Thou stoop to bless 

My son that is to be.'* 



117 



THE BLUE FLOWER 

( From the German of Rudolph Baumbach. ) 

rpHREE boys lay down to slumber, 
-■• Where forest arches gleam; 
The branches waved above them, 
And there sleep softly wove them 
A fair and magic dream. 

They dreamed they saw a-blooming 

That flower of heavenly blue, 
Of which the dear old stories. 
Report the wondrous glories ; 
It gleamed in the morning dew. 

Then they awoke and parted, 

But each went seeking still, 
All through the forest reaches, 
Beneath the firs and beeches, 
By valley and by hill. 

The first of the three seekers 
Was surely Fortune's son; 

He found a chest with treasure, 

Rejoicing beyond measure. 
He took what he had won. 



118 



And built himself a castle, 

And up from all the plain, 
He hears men's praises thunder, — 
And of the flower of wonder, 
He never thought again. 

The second found no flower ; 

He found a nut-brown maid ; 
Indeed she might not brave him, 
But heart and hand she gave him, 

Within the forest shade. 

With music and with dancing, 

They passed the wedding hours; 
His children grow, — you'll pardon 
He works his kitchen-garden. 
Since flowers are only flowers. 

The third one. Ah ! the third one 
Stayed in the forest dim. 

He seeks the flower ever, 

And as he finds it never, 
The people laugh at him. 



119 



AT THE TOMB OF THEOPHILE GAUTIER 

( From the French of Jos6-Maria de Heredia. ) 

WITHOUT fear that ever it shall be over- 
thrown, 
The poet has sculptured his statue secure, 
In a metal divine, in a marble unknown. 

Time's change and man's rage he can smile to 

endure. 
Nor the briar, nor the bramble that creepeth 

unheard, 
Shall shake or shall shatter his pedestal sure. 

For the monument built by his hands is 

unstirred 
By the thunderbolt's shock, by the cannon's 

loud roar : 
He has graved it in gold of the rhythmical 

Word. 

Immortal and like to that monolith hoar. 
Whose memory remains though forgotten its 

name, 
He sings on, disdaining great Memnon of yore ; 

For thy sun is arisen and shining, Fame ! 

120 



IN FRENCH METERS 



THE FAE ADVENTUEE 

( Rondeau. ) 

XJOT overseas I seek my foreign land, 

•^^ Because for me there beckons where you 

stand, 
The lure of unknown shores, mysterious 
And unexplored, spice islands odorous, 
Fairer than Spain, Cathay or Samarcand. 

magic shores by wooing breezes fanned ! 
For all delight and rare enchantment planned; 
Most fortunate am I to voyage thus, 

Not overseas. 

So once again my brittle shallop, manned 

By dauntless hopes, all eager from the strand 

1 launch, and take, uncharted, hazardous, 
Twixt smile and frown my passage perilous ; 
My far adventure lieth here at hand. 

Not overseas. 



12$ 



LET US BE FEIENDS 

(Rondeau.) 

LET US be friends ! I use not language high, 
^ As poets do who swear they pine and die ; 
He risks a fall who will too lofty soar, 
And bankrupt he who ventures all his store ; 
In smallest seeds the fairest blossoms lie. 

Will you not heed ? A modest suitor I, 
Who knows no art, and yet he needs must try 
To give his question voice, — I ask no more — 
Let us be friends! 

Why need we wait? The precious moments fly, 
They turn to days, the hasting days go by; 
Time turns his glass and shakes his sickle hoar ; 
He laughs at laggards ; haste we I implore ! 
This small request you'll surely not deny; 
Let us be friends ! 



124 



IN THE STREAM OF THE WORLD 

( Rondeau, short form. ) 

" Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille 
Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der Welt. " 

Goethe. 

T N the stream of the world we are swept along 

■■■ faster and faster, 

We seek not to rest from the forces by which 

we are whirled, 
For a character builds itself, — these are the 

words of the master, — 

In the stream of the world. 

We are borne by pools where the eddies lie 

lazily curled, 
By banks which are gay with the noddings of 

gentian and aster. 
By ports where boats lie quiet with white sails 

furled. 

We hear from the distance the moan of an 

ocean vaster. 
We are broken and scarred, — are we stronger, 

as on we are hurled? 
Is peace at the harbor? or hasten we on to 

disaster 

In the stream of the world ? 

125 



TO A FEIEND WITH A CLOCK 

( Rondeau, short form. ) 

" t^LY, envious Time, till thou runne out thy 

-■' race!'' 
So wrote blind Milton in a stately rhyme, 
His dedication for a dial's face; 
Fly, envious Time! 

Some be, who shrink and cower in their place. 
Nor front their fate with confidence sublime, 
Nor point brave prows beyond the bourn of 
space. 

Not we, i 'faith! We would not cry thee grace, 
Assentingly we hear thy steady chime, 
We would not stay thee ; get thee on apace. 
Fly, envious Time! 



126 



IN A LIBEARY 

( Rondel. ) 

MAN cannot live by books alone, 
Nor yet by learning can man live ; 
Some lore that study cannot give, 
Some hint of things we have not known, 
Disturbs the joy we thought our own; 
It wastes like water from a sieve. 
Man cannot live by books alone, 
Nor yet by learning can man live. 

Some breeze from out the garden blown, 
In moments rare and fugitive, 
Cries, **Love and dare! exult! forgive! 
Arise in haste, the morn has flown, 
Man cannot live by books alone ! ' ' 



127 



TO POESY 

(Rondeau Redouble.) 

T WILL not serve thee, mistress mine, 
-■■ Unloose the spell and set me free. 
Heart's blood thon askest for thy wine, 
Snch vintage is too dear for me. 

Thou smilest at my poverty! 

But should I pour it at thy shrine, 
What solace should I have of thee? 

I will not serve thee, mistress mine. 

And should I bring to thee the brine 
Of all my tears, (such tears there be,) 

I ne'er could say ^'Thy bonds untwine. 
Unloose the spell and set me free. 

'*I saw thy station and degree. 

The stars that on thy forehead shine, 

And thee I loved. Could I foresee, 
Heart's blood thou askest for thy wine?' 

Thy service is too costly fine. 

Thy votaries their weird must dree ; 
Soul's anguish is thy drink divine. 

Such vintage is too dear for me. 

128 



All ! give me back my destiny. 

I am enfranchised by this sign, 
My heart I lock from thy decree, 

My soul I guard, it is not thine, 
I will not serve ! 



129 



THE BALLADE OF NEAE AND FAR 

( Ballade a Double Refrain. ) 

WHAT are the keenest joys we prize, 
What are those that we hold most dear? 
Wife or sweetheart or children's eyes? 

Those that are treasured and known and 
near? 
Or the hint in the heart of fear, 

Down where the gates of the sonl nnbar, 
Bidding ns rise nor linger here, 

Calling our hearts to the things afar? 

This is my garden ; fair it lies, 

Frnit it grants in the gracious year. 
Gifts of earth for my feeding rise, 

Those that are treasured and known and 
near; 
Yet what servitors work this cheer? 

Sun and rain of high lineage are; 
Heaven's messengers interfere. 

Calling our hearts to the things afar. 



130 



This is my Fortune ; ere she flies, 

Friends and lovers with praises clear, 
Crown my success and enterprise. 

Those that are treasured and known and 
near; 
Yet what pinnacles rise austere? 

Hills delectable, scarp and scar, 
Piercing our earthly atmosphere, 

Calling our hearts to the things afar? 

Envoy 

Prince! Alas! How they disappear, 
Those that are treasured and known and near! 
Still there beckons the morning-star. 
Calling our hearts to the things afar. 



131 



BALLADE OF MONSIEUR BRIDEAU 

( On seeing Otis Skinner in the role. ) 

r> RIDEAU ! I view you askance ! 
^-^ You are too bad, I declare, 
Roystering blade and free-lance. 

Swash-buckler, devil-may-care, 
Ready to fight or to swear, 

To drink or to dice or to dance, 
So they behave over there ; 

These are the manners of France. 

Bless me ! one shrinks from your glance, 

Shakes at your impudent stare, 
When, with a threat, you advance, 

Swaggering in with an air; 
Still your good uncle's affair 

Called for such treatment, perchance, 
And Flora had need of a scare; 

These are the manners of France. 



132 



Yes ! I admit as you prance, 

Insolent, bold, debonair. 
Hero you are of romance. 

Eager to do and to dare ; 
Courage you have and to spare. 

Blandishments too to entrance, 
To bully, cajole or ensnare ; 

These are the manners of France. 

Envoy 

Princess ! I bid you beware ; 

Ladies have never a chance ; 
If you should go over there. 

These are the manners of France, 



133 



BALLADE OF THE WOMAN'S NUMBER 

T IFE and the Woman! Of these I speak. 
-'— ^ Maids and matrons, are you aware 
Former times are come back this week? 

^' Dames Seules'^ now we're obliged to fare; 
Haste and search for the fashions where 

Grandma's ^^ keepsakes" the garret cumber; 
Ringletted surely should be your hair, 

You must go in the Woman's Number. 

Nay, be grateful and show no pique ; 

Though for aid you no longer care, 
Try to swoon and be mild and meek ; 

Muslin now is the only wear ; 
It becomes you, I do declare ; 

Equal Rights are but useless lumber ; 
Off with that independent air ! 

You must go in the Woman's Number. 



134 



Suffragettes may protest and shriek, 

Learned Portias may pout and stare, 
Claiming the Editor is a freak ; 

Though you can smoke, or shoot, or swear. 
Ladies eminent, gallant, fair, 

Helen of Troy or Madame Humbert, 
Since you can do no mischief there. 

You must go in the Woman's Number. 

Envoy 

Princess ! Eagerly do you dare, 

Waked at last from your magic slumber. 

Claim life owes you an equal share? 
You must go in the Woman's Number. 



136 



SESTINA OF THE AEDENT CLUB- 
WOMAN 

rflHE telephone keeps ringing all the time. 
-■" That's Mrs. Carter calling up again 
About the Business Meeting of the Board ; 
I'd like to count how many times she calls 
To ask some question anyone would know, 
Who read her notice as she ought to do. 

It's queer the silly things that people do, 
That take and waste another person's time. 
There's a mistake in my report I know, 
I'll have to try to balance it again, 
And yet how can I, with these constant calls 
Before to-morrow's meeting of the Board? 

And as to that, it's lucky that I board; 

If I kept house, I don't know what I'd do; 

I owe at least a dozen luncheon calls; 

I'd go to-day if I could find the time. 

But there's Miss Parker's lecture comes again, 

I really ought to go to that I know. 



136 



There are so many things one ought to know, 
And there is so much business for the Board, 
And church and Sunday coming round again, 
And every day a thousand things to do. 
And meetings and committees all the time. 
One gets bewildered with so many calls. 

They say, it's opportunity that calls 

To work and learn and use the things we know, 

And make the best advantage of our time, 

Or we shall leave life's hospitable board, 

Unsatisfied, unfed, as many do, 

And never shall sit down to it again. 

I must go over that report again; 

I'm not at home if anybody calls; 

My paper for to-night will have to do, 

Although I ought to alter it I know ; 

To get those figures ready for the Board 

Will wear me out and take up all the time. 

The bell again ! That telephone I know 
Will kill me with its calls ! Although I board 
I have so much to do, so little time ! 



137 



PANTOUM OF THE VIRTUOUS 
HOUSEWIFE 

IT'S Bridget's Sunday out, 
I must keep the children neat; 
Aunt Hannah will come no doubt, 
She never eats potted meat. 

I must keep the children neat; 

The sitting-room's in a mess, 
She never eats potted meat. 

And Susie has torn her dress. 

The sitting-room's in a mess; 

I'll pick up the baby's blocks. 
And Susie has torn her dress, 

I ought to lengthen her frocks. 

I'll pick up the baby's blocks; 

I wish their clothes would last, 
I ought to lengthen her frocks. 

The children grow so fast. 

I wish their clothes would last ; 

I'll alter my last year's hat; 
The children grow so fast, 

You can always count on that. 

138 



I'll alter my last year's liat; 

We're always short of cash, 
You can always count on that, 

And Eoger is tired of hash. 

We're always short of cash; 

I think it is very queer ; 
And Eoger is tired of hash. 

And even sausage is dear. 

I think it is very queer ; 

The water-back's sprung a leak! 
And even sausage is dear; 

Seven breakfasts a week! 

The water-back's sprung a leak. 
On Sunday of all the days ! 

Seven breakfasts a week! 
I have to make mayonnaise. 

On Sunday of all the days, 

Aunt Hannah will come no doubt ; 

I have to make mayonnaise, 
It's Bridget's Sunday out. 



139 



THE POET CHOOSES HIS METER 

( Pantoum. ) 

A PANTOUM is the very thing for me, 
-^^ Because twice over I can use each line, 
So shall I practise wise economy ; 
That endless repetition will be fine. 

Because twice over I can use each line, 
It's better than a rondeau or rondel; 

That endless repetition will be fine, 
And I prefer it to a villanelle. 

It's better than a rondeau or rondel, 
And sonnets are so difficult at times ! 

And I prefer it to a villanelle ; 

A ballade takes so very many rhymes. 

And sonnets are so difficult at times ! 

But that 's the trouble with all kinds of verse. 
A ballade takes so very many rhymes, 

And those with two refrains are even worse. 

But that's the trouble with all kinds of verse, 

Sestina, chant royal, or virelai, 
And those with two refrains are even worse; 

A lyric should have something new to say. 

140 



Sestina, chant royal, or virelai, 

I will not choose those measures when I sing. 
A lyric should have something new to say 

To chant the glories of the coming spring. 

I will not choose those measures when I sing, 
So shall I practise wise economy; 

To chant the glories of the coming spring, 
A pantoum is the very thing for me. 



141 



OY If W\ 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
NOV U '9' 



